


you can always rely on me

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Illiterate bucky, Mentions of Racism, Post-Endgame, also i twisted some tws and cw facts for this fic to be plausible, basically the whole smithsonian visit and bucky's journal, but don't worry he appears very shortly, internalized ableism, old steve, the sambucky in this can be interpreted as potentially romantic or strictly platonic, whatever works for you tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Sam teaches Bucky how to read and write again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 233





	you can always rely on me

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta-ed bc this came out of nowhere and it's Friday and who has time for that  
> This came up after a hc i couldn't take my mind of  
> enjoy!

Sam realizes Bucky doesn’t know how to write on a Friday, one evening after he’s been missing his mom’s cooking.

They have been living in the Tower. It’s easier and safer, with Sam being Captain America and they working as a team. The first months of readjusting after the Blip and everything that had happened were the roughest, but they’re doing mostly okay now.

There’s no sight of anyone else on the kitchen, where Sam is talking to his mom and asking her about one of her best recipes. As the great mom she is, she starts giving him way too many instructions until Sam laughs and tells her, “Wait till I write that down!” and he picks up a notebook that’s been lying on the counter. His eyes widen involuntarily when he opens it up.

It’s full of scribbles. Not the drawing kind: they are messy and shaky like someone who has no control over their movements.

Sam switches the page. More scribbles. He goes through the notebook. Eventually the scribbles evolve into shaky shapes, and then into names and letters. It’s like a kindergartener wrote them.

Sam freezes.

_BU_

_BUCK_

_BUCKY_

_BARNS_

_BARNES_

_BUKCY BARNS_

Sam goes through the pages, fascinated. There are more names in it in those big, quivery letters. Attempts at writing. There are many attempts of writing his name, too, Steve’s, and Natasha’s.

“What,” asks a breathless voice; “are you doing?”

Sam’s stomach drops when he looks up from the pages and Bucky is right there. In the phone, his mother asks him if he’s still on the line.

“I’ll call you later, ma. Thanks.” He replies, and then hangs up before she can protest _(oh boy, Sam is going to_ hear _it when he calls her back)._

“I,” Sam starts up, but cannot finish when Bucky blushes hard. He’s never seen him so red. Sam’s throat is so dry.

Bucky strides furiously towards him and snatches the notebook away.

“I didn’t mean to pry, I needed somewhere to write and—” Sam tries to explain, but Bucky is already out the kitchen with a grunt.

Sam rubs his face in both embarrassment and dread. He’s no longer hungry.

This is not good.

* * *

He’s been in his room for the past few hours, planning how to approach the matter with Bucky when someone knocks on his door.

Sam’s stomach flips.

“Come in,” he says.

It’s Bucky.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man. Come in.”

Bucky does as he’s told. He closes the door and he stands there, in the middle of the room. He looks so awkward. Sam thinks he should say something just as Bucky starts speaking too.

“Hey, about before—“

“I’m sorry for—“

They shut up. They stare at each other and let out a nervous chuckle.

“About before,” Sam picks up, because Bucky seems oddly shy now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I needed somewhere to write a recipe, and it was the first thing I saw. I didn’t even think about it before I opened it.” Sam sighs. “I’m really sorry.”

Bucky nods. He’s not looking at Sam.

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Sam. “Okay,” he repeats nervously. “I am… I’m sorry. I was a jerk, I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“It’s okay, man. I get it.”

It seems like the wrong thing to say, because annoyance flickers on Bucky’s expression.

“No.” He says curtly, baring his teeth. “No, Sam, you don’t get it. You don’t get how it feels to be so fucking capable, and then…” Bucky stops, looks down. “I used to write these long ass letters, back during the war. And now I can’t even write my fucking _name_. You _don’t_ get how it feels when they scramble with your brains so badly, that you get turned into a fucking idiot. So don’t tell me you _get_ it.”

Sam stares at him. Bucky is shaking.

He looks like he’s about to cry.

Sam lets out a loud exhale.

“I mean I get why you reacted the way you did,” Sam explains. “And I get why you feel embarrassed about this. But there’s nothing wrong with it, Bucky.”

Bucky scoffs.

“Sure. Nothing wrong with your hands turning into killing machines.”

Sam can’t help it. He gives Bucky a pitying look. Bucky groans and sits on the bed, next to Sam.

“Please don’t give me that look.”

Sam tries to change the subject.

“Does anyone else know?”

Bucky smiles bitterly. He knows what Sam means, he can read between the lines. What Sam is truly asking is, _“Does Steve know?”_

“No. There wasn’t really time to dwell on that. It was always one thing after another — Project Insight, then Siberia, then Thanos and the Snap. Even when I was in Romania I was too fucked up trying to adjust and fearing Hydra or others would come get me to even think about learning to write again.”

Sam frowns. “But Steve told me you had a journal…”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Mostly pictures. Scribbles. No words.”

Sam nods.

“Please promise me you won’t tell anyone about this,” Bucky whispers, staring directly into Sam’s eyes. He suddenly seems so young, so scared. His voice is scratchy and rough, but his eyes are pleading like a frightened child and Sam feels the need to hug him. Instead, he just places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it in a comforting way.

“Not even if my life depended on it. I promise.”

* * *

Sam can imagine how Bucky must be feeling like. All the stories he heard about Bucky Barnes before he actually met the guy portrayed him as this highly capable, smart, charismatic guy. He aced at everything he did.

He also knows that pretty much any illiterate grown up feels embarrassed about it, but he gets why for Bucky it is especially mortifying. Plus the guy has been through a lot, and despite they didn’t start out on the best terms Sam can see now that he’s a really nice guy, so of course he wants to help.

He looks up strategies to teach grown ups how to write. He buys a few books for Bucky to practice.

That afternoon he knocks on Bucky’s door, books in hand. Bucky takes a while to open and he seems tense when he does, until he realizes it’s just Sam. Then he relaxes almost immediately.

“Oh. It’s just you.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Well fuck you too.”

Bucky gives him a shit-eating grin.

“Were you writing?” Sam asks, wondering if that was the reason Bucky took a while to open. He must have been hiding his stuff.

“I… Yeah, if that’s what you can call it.”

Sam would tease him. They usually bicker all the time. But he knows that this is a sensitive subject for Bucky — he’s not the kind of guy who is usually self-deprecating. Not on good days, at least.

Sam changes the subject.

“I brought you something.”

He hands him the books on how to read and write for adults. Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Sam, you didn’t have to—“

“I wanted to.”

Bucky’s lips shake. He seems moved.

“Thank you,” he says after a pause. The words are simple, but they are charged with a lot of meaning.

Sam just thinks, _awww_.

“You’re welcome.” He reassures. “Would you let me help you learn again?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? No, Sam, I couldn’t ask… This is already too much, I’m—“

He shuts up. Sam thinks about how much this little action must mean to him, after seventy years of being treated like an object. Such a little thing seems like too much, and Sam gets why he’s trying so hard for his voice not to crack.

That only makes him want to help more.

“Bucky. You don’t have to do this on your own anymore.” Sam reminds him, soft but firm, and Bucky’s eyes look watery but he doesn’t let them spill. He smiles a little bit — he seems nostalgic.

“Alright,” he blinks and sniffs a little bit. Sam pretends not to notice.

And then: “Should I call you Professor Wilson?”

He’s grinning, the little shit.

Sam cackles. “You know, history books never mentioned how big of an asshole you are.”

“Aww, you learned about me?”

“Don’t get our hopes up, I only did it to pass my courses. And if you don’t focus you’re not gonna pass mine.”

Bucky chuckles.

“Okay, _Professor.”_

Sam snorts. “Cut the shit, Barnes. Are you left or right-handed?”

Bucky’s smile completely vanishes.

“I’m. Ambidextrous.” He clears his throat. It’s been a while since he didn’t do the paused speech, so Sam feels guilty for hitting a nerve. “I think… I think I was right-handed. Before. But after, I had to, y’know. Adapt.”

Sam hears the words Bucky’s not saying. _They made me adapt,_ it's what he’s saying.

“Okay. But which hand would you like to learn how to write with?”

(Sam isn’t looking to upset the guy. But it is a necessary question.)

Bucky mulls it over. Sam is really curious to see what he picks — in one hand, he knows how Bucky feels about the metal arm. On the other, he’s probably more dependable on it after everything that’s happened. Plus, it would mean embracing his past, which is something Bucky deserves.

Bucky swallows thickly, then he stretches his left hand.

Sam just nods.

They start with simple exercises. Sam has done his homework and he knows teaching an adult is supposed to be easier than teaching a child, because usually you didn’t have to start from zero with them. Plus, Bucky had already been trying to relearn before. It’s just a matter of time before he remembers more and gets used to the feeling of writing with the metal hand.

Bucky seems nervous at the beginning. Sam wonders why — would he be expecting Sam to mock him or think less of him? He knows they usually tease each other constantly, but Sam would never dare to joke about something Bucky isn’t comfortable with. He also would never dare to think less of Bucky, the guy who broke through seventy years of torture, conditioning and programming.

If only, the fact that Bucky is trying so hard to pick up the pieces makes Sam think even more of him.

* * *

It’s funny how their relationship evolves after that. They are joking and bantering all the time, except when the lessons come. Then Bucky becomes quiet and focused, determined. And maybe just a little bit nervous for the first days, until he realizes that Sam is the most patient and supportive teacher there could ever be. He never mocks him when he can’t get a word right. And when bad days come and Bucky gets upset, Sam is encouraging. He’s gentle but unyielding at the same time. He doesn’t let Bucky give up, but he knows exactly when and how to pressure.

* * *

“So when did you realize you couldn’t read and write?” Sam asks him one day after the lesson is done. Bucky can write his full name again, can write Sam’s, can write Steve’s.

Sam is so proud. He’s also curious.

“It was a little while after I broke the programming.” Bucky tells him. “I don’t know if Steve has told you this, but I went to the Smithsonian exhibit. And there it was,” Bucky chokes a little, then goes on. “There it was, this big picture of me — of my face, staring back at me, and _I couldn’t fucking read what the text said, and I_ needed _to know._ So I had to ask for an audioguide. And then, when I heard the whole story and saw all those videos and pictures, memories came flooding in. And. It was. Horrible. I needed to let it out,” he breathes, panicking; “but I couldn’t. I couldn’t write and it was — it felt — it felt like being trapped. Inside my own head.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam whispers, a knot in his throat. Bucky is shivering, staring far into the distance. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder to bring him back to reality and Bucky gives a start, his eyes watering when he looks back at Sam.

Sam pulls him into a hug and lets him sob.

* * *

Bucky’s reading skills have been improving, too. To practice this, Sam started out by printing random internet articles. He’s realized that the ones that focus on science and technology interest him the most and motivate him to read. Sam has been trying to expand the catalogue — he even risked printing articles and biographies of Bucky. He warned him before Bucky dove into them, of course, afraid they might trigger him. But Sam also knows that Bucky wants (and deserves) to know more about his past.

_(In the end Bucky decided not to read them aloud, but kept them anyway. Sam is sure he most likely reads them on his own, when he can allow emotion to overtake him. It’s okay. He won’t hold it against him.)_

Recently, however, Sam found out that another of Bucky’s favorite topics is space. So they have been focusing on that lately.

“You know,” Sam tells him one evening; “we could contact Thor and the Guardians for more info about space and other planets and realms. I bet they’ll have pretty interesting stuff.”

Bucky shrugs.

“I don’t know, man.”

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“What? Don’t you like Thor?”

“No, Thor’s okay,” Bucky blushes a little. Sam smirks, this will be the subject of some good teasing for later. “It’s the fucking raccoon I can’t stand.”

Sam chuckles. “Well I guess that’s common between siblings.”

Bucky punches his arm in a friendly way. “Oh, shut up, bird brain.”

They both laugh.

* * *

They go outside for dinner that night. Bucky still struggles with going to crowded places from time to time, but it seems like it’s a good mental health day.

It’s when they are walking back and chattering about trivial stuff that they pass a mural. Sam freezes on his tracks.

It’s _him,_ dressed up as Captain America. And it would be so moving, that is, if it wasn’t vandalized.

His face has been scribbled over and crude, horrible letters in red read

**NOT MY CAPTAIN**

It’s like being hit by cold water.

It takes Bucky a little while to get the message, but once he does, he goes still and his eyes narrow dangerously. Sam swallows thickly — he hasn’t seen that look since the Winter Soldier had been activated.

“Hey, Sam.” Bucky whispers. “You think you could teach me how to write cuss words?”

* * *

Not so surprisingly, bonding over Bucky’s lessons has improved their coordination in battle.

They act like a team, like they have been fighting side to side their whole lives. And that makes them more effective but at the same time much more vulnerable, because they care so much about each other. Bucky hasn’t really thought much about it until one day during a mission it becomes clear how much he’s come to care for Sam.

They are destroying a Hydra base and Bucky becomes caught up fighting a bunch of agents. The place is crumbling already and they have little time left. Sam is supposed to be leaving already, but instead he comes to Bucky’s rescue even after Bucky yells at him to go, to leave him behind, but Sam refuses.

_(It reminds Bucky of something. It reminds him of the words “No! Not without you!”)_

They manage to escape the debris — not unscathed, however. Some of the Hydra agents managed to shoot them and well, Bucky will be fine, he is a super-soldier after all. But Sam is not doing so well. He’s bleeding heavily and Bucky remembers what fearing for someone else’s life was like.

* * *

It’s a funny parallel, Sam thinks when he wakes up and sees Bucky next to him, dozing off. He remembers doing the same for Steve after the Potomac. He grimaces. Being shot in the gut is one of the most painful things ever, but it seems like it comes with the job.

He stays looking at the ceiling, thinking about the mission, about the pain, about Bucky’s desperation. His stomach turns.

He looks at Bucky. He’s not injured anymore ( _how much time has passed already?_ ), but not exactly fine, either. His stubble is already growing into a full, messy beard and his long hair is in disarray. His clothes are rumpled and there are bags under his eyes.

Usually, Sam would let the guy sleep soundly, for it seems like such a rare thing. But right at the moment Sam is feeling woozy due to the medication, so he doesn’t really think when he stretches out his hand and squeezes Bucky’s arm, because he’s a bit of a brat.

Bucky wakes up with a start. Sam smirks drowsily.

“Sam,” Bucky whispers. His voice is raspy and terrible.

“You look like shit,” Sam says, slurred. Bucky snorts.

“You should see this guy I work with. He looks even worse.”

“Shut up,” Sam replies, because he’s not feeling witty to come up with something better.

Bucky’s gaze softens.

“How are you feeling?”

“Do you remember that time when we got drunk on Thor’s Asgardian booze?”

“Yeah.”

“Well let’s just say that the hangover from after that day’s nothing compared to this.”

Bucky looks mildly amused.

“That bad, huh.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Not all of us are juiced up, Sarge.”

Bucky sighs.

“Why did you do that, Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky stares sternly at Sam.

“Coming back for me. You should’ve left.”

“Barnes.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever say that shit again, okay? ‘M not wasting all my efforts on my best student to just leave him behind like that.”

Bucky tries to keep himself serious, but he can’t help the smile that creeps across his lips.

“Oh? I’m your best student then?”

“You’re my only student, dumbass. Bar’s pretty low.”

Bucky chuckles.

“Ouch. Not gonna lie Cap, that hurt a little.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam lets it hang for a minute, then sighs. Judging from his smile, he knows Bucky probably didn’t take the jab seriously, but he doesn’t want to risk it. He feels the need to tell the truth: maybe it’s the meds, or maybe it’s the fact that they could have died. “‘M just kidding. You’re pretty great, actually.”

The tenderness in Bucky’s eyes is almost unbearable. His smile widens, sincere.

“Thanks. You’re pretty great yourself too.”

Sam hums, sleep already pulling him under again.

“Hey, Sam. You know you can rely on me too, right?” Bucky says. He takes a big breath. “I know how it feels like. To be… well, semi-normal I guess. But I’ve got your back.”

“I know,” Sam says, because it’s true. “I know.”

“Cool. Now rest.”

Sam drifts off to sleep.

* * *

It’s almost impossible to take Bucky by surprise. As the Winter Soldier, he’s used to detect the subtlest movement, the subtlest noise. But he has been pretty caught up focusing on Sam’s recovery and, at the moment, on his reading. In order not to lose practice, Bucky has been reading aloud to Sam, the way he used to do in the 30’s when Steve was too sick.

He’s been getting better at it, but he’s still a bit slow and he struggles with big words. Right now he’s reading _The Little Prince,_ because Sam likes it _._

Sam has already fallen asleep, but Bucky keeps reading, pausing and struggling from time to time. It’s until he’s about to switch the page when he notices that someone’s standing by the doorstep of Sam’s hospital room.

Bucky freezes. It’s Steve, and he’s smiling.

Bucky feels his face go pale.

“H-hey, old man.”

_Fuck._

“Hey Buck.” Steve greets nonchalantly, then approaches them. He looks at Sam and his face turns worried. “How’s he doing?”

Bucky’s mouth is so dry.

“He’s better.” He swallows nervously. “I think. I think he will be discharged soon, but still. I doubt. There’ll be missions for a while.”

“It’s okay, there are others who can take care of it.” Steve reassures.

It’s still weird, looking at his wrinkled face. But it is how it is, and Bucky has come to terms with that.

“Yeah. How’s retirement?”

They chat for a while. It almost feels like the old times, and Bucky has almost forgotten about Steve catching him reading until the conversation reaches its natural ending. After a pause, Steve says:

“You know you can keep doing what you were before I got here, right?”

Bucky blinks.

“Steve—“

Steve sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me, Buck?”

Bucky blushes furiously. He looks at the floor.

“It’s just — there was no time. And then. Well. I didn’t want…” Bucky frowns. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

“Bucky.” Steve says firmly. Bucky looks up, still frowning. “Do you remember when we were kids and I was a sickly little thing?”

Bucky can’t help smiling softly at the memory.

“Seems so long ago.” He whispers.

Steve nods.

“I know. But I haven’t forgotten. I was constantly behind my class, because I missed school so much. But you always brought me the homework and explained stuff to me. You always helped me study and learn, even when I got too stubborn and tired. You never treated me like I was stupid, and you never gave up on me. And it was annoying but I really appreciated that.”

Bucky seems surprised.

“You never told me that.”

Steve shrugs.

“There was no time,” he mocks him.

Bucky snorts.

“I don’t want you to think of me as a charity case.” He says bluntly.

Steve actually scoffs at that.

“Man, if you’re a charity case then what does that make of me, back then?”

Bucky purses his lips.

“Sam’s been teaching me.” He tells Steve. “He’s so patient, but right now he can’t and I. I don’t want to fall behind.” He sighs, looks at Steve straight in the eye. “I don’t want to forget. Again.”

Steve nods.

“Well. Would you allow me to return the favor? Just until Sam gets better. I wouldn’t like to take over his job.”

Bucky kind of wants to cry. He also kind of really wants to smile, because he knows he’s not alone anymore.

“Substitute teacher, huh? Alright, Rogers.” He smiles through the tears that threaten to spill, clears his throat. “Let me see what you’ve got. You have big shoes to fill.”

Steve lets out a little chuckle.

“I’ll try my best.”

* * *

“I want to write a letter,” Bucky says after one or two lessons with Steve. “For when Sam gets better.”

“Okay.” Steve smiles.

* * *

On the day of his discharge, when he’s alone in his room, Sam reads Bucky’s letter.

He cries a little after that, but Bucky doesn’t need to know that.

He keeps the letter safe.

* * *

Sam recovers. It all comes back into place after that.

Bucky has been doing so much better overall, but there are bad days still.

_(There will probably always be, but that’s okay)._

That day is one of those.

Bucky has been in a mood since he woke up. Sam suggested it might not be the best idea to have lessons when he’s like that, but Bucky insisted.

It was indeed a bad idea. Bucky is stiffer than usual, and the letters come out intelligible and shaky. Bucky is getting more and more frustrated with each failed attempt.

He breaks the pencil. Sam starts.

Bucky hides his face between his hands and says:

“Why do you even keep trying? I’m fucked up. I’m useless and stupid and I don’t know who I’m kidding, I’ll never be more than a disabled murder machine.”

Sam frowns.

“Hey,” he calls. He grabs Bucky’s metal wrists and pulls. Bucky tries to retaliate but gives up and pouts at Sam, his crying face exposed. “Hey, I’d appreciate if you didn’t talk about my friend like that,” Sam berates.

“Why not? It’s the goddamn truth Sam, and you know it.”

“No,” Sam insists. “You know what I know? I know this guy, who has been tortured and brainwashed for seventy years. I know this guy whose arm was replaced with a weapon and now he uses it to write sweet words. To say what he thinks, after so many years of being forced to shut up. To defend his friends. I know this guy who could give into bitterness and no one would judge him, not after all the shit he’s been through, and yet keeps trying to be good and kind everyday. He’s my best friend. So I’d really appreciate if you didn’t talk shit about him. Otherwise I’m gonna have to beat you up.”

Bucky giggles, but it sounds like a sob. He’s a mess. He’s crying harder now, face red and puffy. 

“I’d like to see you try, jerk.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Bucky sniffs and wipes his tears away.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam smiles.

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

* * *

_Sam:_

_Do you remember the time you brought me those books to practice? You told me I wasn’t on my own._

_I felt like crying that day._

_You remind me of a certain punk sometimes. A certain punk who always thought he had to do everything on his own, and I constantly had to remind him he didn’t have to._

_I think I understood how it felt to be on the other side of it that day._

_You make me feel like I’m less lonely. Like I’m not a lost case. And for that I have to say thank you._

_I know what it feels like to be just a dude. Back in Romania, I feared all the time, because I had no superpowers and the whole world was against me. And I know it can’t compare to the racism and discrimination you’ve faced since you were born, to the judging stares of everybody who doesn’t think you’re enough as Captain America because of the color of your skin, but I get it. And_ _let me tell you something: fuck those people._

_You’re Captain America. You’re worthy of it. And you’re doing great. And I want you to know that you are not alone in this._

_You can always rely on me. I’ve got you._

_Thanks for making me feel like you’ve got me, too._

_Your friend,_

_Bucky._


End file.
